"The idiot has blundered this whole contamination inspection thing. It's a wonder the world news media hasn't gotten wind of it."
"Are Hopper and his team dead?"
"Might as well be. They're laboring as slaves in a secret gold mining operation of Mr. Massarde's in the deepest part of the Sahara."
"And the NUMA intruders?"
"They were also captured and sent to the mines."
"Then you and Mr. Massarde have everything under control."
"The reason Mr. Massarde sent for you. To prevent any more fiascos by Kazim."
"Where do I go from here?" asked Yerli.
"To Fort Foureau for instructions from Massarde himself. He'll arrange an introduction with Kazim, glorifying the horrifying little man with your intelligence accomplishments. Kazim has a fetish for spy novels. He'll leap at the opportunity to use your services, unknowing you will be reporting his every movement and action to Mr. Massarde."
"How far is Fort Foureau?"
"A two-hour flight by helicopter. Come along, we'll pick up your luggage and be on our way."
Like the Japanese who conducted their business without buying products manufactured by the nations they hustled, Massarde only hired French engineers and construction workers as well as using French-manufactured equipment and transportation. The French-built Ecureuil helicopter was a mate to the one Pitt crashed in the Niger River. Verenne had the copilot collect Yerli's bags and deposit them on board.
As he and the expressionless Turk settled in comfortable leather chairs, a steward served hors d'oeuvres and champagne.
A bit fancy aren't we?" asked Yerli. "Do you always throw out the red carpet for ordinary visitors?"
"Mr. Massarde's orders," replied Verenne stiffly. "He abhors the American practice of offering soft drinks, beer, and nuts. He insists that as Frenchmen we demonstrate refined taste in keeping with French culture, regardless of the status of our visitors."
Yerli held up his glass of champagne. "To Yves Massarde, may he never cease being generous."
"To our boss," said Verenne. "May he never stop his generosity to those who are loyal."
Yerli downed his glass with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and held it out for a refill. "Any feedback on your operations at Fort Foureau from environmentalist groups?"
"Not really. They're in a bit of a quandary. They applaud our self-sufficient solar energy design, but they're scared to death of what burning toxic wastes will do to the desert air."
Yerli studied the bubbles in his champagne glass. "You are certain the secret of Fort Foureau is still safe? What if European and American governments get wind of the real operation?"
Verenne laughed. "Are you joking? Most of the governments of the industrialized world are only too happy to go along with secretly getting rid of their hazardous garbage without public knowledge. Privately, bureaucratic officials and business executives of nuclear and chemical plants around the world have given us their blessing."
"They know?" Yerli asked in surprise.
Verenne looked at him with a bemused smile. "Who do you think are Massarde's clients?"
After leaving the truck, Pitt and Giordino walked through the heat of the afternoon and under the cold of the night, wanting to travel as far as possible while they were still reasonably fresh. When they finally stopped and rested, it was the following dawn. By burrowing m the sand and covering their bodies during the heat of the day, they shielded themselves from the blazing sun and reduced their water loss. The gentle pressure from the sand also gave some relief to their tired muscles.
They made 48 kilometers (30 miles) toward their goal the first trek. They actually walked further, meandering across the hard floor valleys between sand dunes. The second night they set out before sunset so Pitt could position the stake and set their course until the stars came out. By sunup the next morning the Trans-Saharan Track was another 42 kilometers closer. Before digging under their daily blanket of sand, they drained the last drops of water from the canister. From now on, until they found a new supply of water, their bodies would begin to wither and die.
The third night of their trek, they had to cross a barrier of dunes that stretched out of sight to the right and left. The dunes, though menacing, were things of beauty. Their delicate, smooth surfaces were sculptured into fragile, evermoving ripples by the restless wind. Pitt quickly learned their secrets. After a gentle slope, the dune usually dropped sharply on the other side. They traveled when practical on the razor-edged crests of the dunes to prevent slogging up and down the soft, giving sand. If this proved difficult, they meandered through
the hollows where the sand was firmer beneath their feet.
On the fourth day the dunes gradually became lower and finally fell away onto a wide sandy plain, dreary and waterless. During the hottest part of the day the sun beat down on the parched flatland like a blacksmith's hammer against red hot iron. Though thankful to be crossing a level surface, they found the walking difficult. Two kinds of ripples covered the sandy ground. The first being small, shallow ridges, which presented no problem. But the other, large ripples spaced farther apart, crested at exactly the length of their strides, creating a tiring effect much like walking the ties of a railroad.
Their hiking time became shorter and the rest stops longer and more frequent. They plodded on, their heads down, silent. Talking only made their mouths drier. They were prisoners of the sand, held captive by a cage measured only by distance. There were few distinct landmarks except for the jagged peaks of a low range of rock that reminded Pitt of the vertebra of a dead monster. It was a land where each kilometer looked exactly like the last and time ran without meaning as if turning on a treadmill.