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"More than enough time to circumvent the good doctor's plans." He looked icily into Mansa's eyes. "I trust you will appear disappointed and most solicitous when Hopper announces the failure of his investigation to you."
"I will be at my diplomatic best," Mansa assured him.
"Is his aircraft and its crew still on the ground in Timbuktu?"
Mansa nodded. "The pilots are staying at the Hotel Azalai."
"You say Hopper intends to pay them a bonus to land in the desert north of here?"
"Yes, that is what he told the others."
"We must gain control of the aircraft."
"You wish me to bribe the pilots above what Hopper offers them?"
"A waste of good money," Kazim sneered. "Kill them."
Mansa half expected the order and did not react. "Yes, sir."
"And replace them with pilots from our own military who resemble their size and facial features."
"A masterful plan, my General."
"Also, inform Dr. Hopper that I insist Captain Batutta accompany them to Cairo to act as my personal representative to the World Health Organization. He will oversee the operation."
"What orders do you wish me to give our replacement officers?"
"Order them," said Kazim with evil blackness in his eyes, "to land Dr. Hopper and his party at Asselar."
"Asselar." The name rolled off Mansa's tongue as if it was coated in acid. "Hopper and his party will surely be murdered by the mutant savages of Asselar as were the members of the tourist safari."
"That," said Kazim coldly, "is for Allah to decide."
"And if for some unforeseen reason they should survive?" Mansa posed the question delicately.
An evil expression that sent a shiver through Mansa spread across Kazim's face. The General smiled cunningly, his dark eyes reflecting cold amusement. "Then there is always Tebezza."
DEAD GROUND
May 15, 1996
New York City
At Floyd Bennett Field on the shore of Jamaica Bay, New York, a man dressed like a sixties hippie leaned against a Jeep Wagoneer station wagon parked on a deserted end of the tarmac. He peered through a pair of granny glasses at a turquoise aircraft that taxied through a light morning mist and stopped only 10 meters away. He straightened when Sandecker and Chapman stepped from the NUMA jet and he moved forward to greet them.
The Admiral noted the car and nodded in satisfaction. He detested formal limousines, insisting on a four-wheel-drive for his personal transportation. He managed a brief smile at the Levi-jacketed, pony-tailed director of NUMA's vast computer data center. Hiram Yaeger was the only person on Sandecker's top staff who ignored the dress code and got away with it.
"Thank you for picking us up, Hiram. Sorry to drag you away from Washington on short notice."
Yaeger walked toward him with an outstretched hand. "No problem, Admiral. I needed a break from my machines." Then he tilted his head and stared up into the face of Dr. Chapman. "Darcy, how was the flight from Nigeria?"
"The cabin ceiling was too low and my seat too short," the tall toxicologist complained. "And to make matters worse, the Admiral beat me ten games to four at gin rummy."
"Let me help you throw your luggage in the car, and we'll head into Manhattan."
"Did you set an appointment with Hala Kamil?" asked Sandecker.
