“Tuaregs,” he said finally.

He spoke so softly that Hopper had to lean closer. “Who?” he questioned.

Yerli looked across the coffee table at the Canadian leader of the medical team. A quiet man, Hopper said little but listened long. He was, the Turk mused, the complete opposite of himself. Hopper was big, humorous, red-faced, and heavily bearded. All he needed to look like the Viking, Eric the Red, was a battle-axe and a conical helmet sunk on his head with horns curving from it. Resourceful, precise, and laid-back, he was regarded by international contamination scientists as one of the two finest toxicologists in the world.

“Tuaregs,” Yerli repeated. Once the mighty nomadic warriors of the desert, who won great battles against French and Moorish armies. And perhaps the greatest of all the romantic bandits. They raid no more. Today, they raise goats and beg in the cities bordering the Sahara to survive. Unlike Arab Muslims, the men wear the veil, a cloth that when unwrapped measures over a meter in length.

“But why would a tribe of desert nomads want to do away with Eva?” asked Hopper to no one in particular. “I fail to see a motive.”

Yerli shook his head vaguely. “It would seem that one of them, at least, does not want her, and-we have to heavily weigh this possibility-the rest of the health teams investigating the outbreaks of toxic poisoning in the southwestern desert.”

“At this point of the project,” said Hopper, “we don’t even know if contamination is the culprit. The mystery malady could be viral or bacterial.”

Eva nodded. “That’s what Pitt suggested…”

“Who?” Hopper asked for the second time.

“Dirk Pitt, the man who saved my life. He said somebody doesn’t want me in Africa. He also thought you and the others might be on a hit list too.”

Yerli threw up his hands. “Incredible, the man thinks we’re dealing with the Sicilian Mafia.”

“Most fortunate he was nearby,” said Hopper.

Yerli exhaled a blue cloud from his meerschaum and stared at the smoke thoughtfully. “More like opportune, considering the only other body on miles of shoreline had the courage to face a trio of assassins. Almost a miracle, or …” he stretched out the pause, “a preconceived presence.”

Eva’s eyes widened in skepticism. “If you’re thinking it was a setup, Ismail, you can forget it.”

“Maybe he staged the act to frighten you back to the States.”

“I saw him kill three men with my own eyes. Believe you me, there was nothing staged about it.”

“Have you heard from him since he dropped you off at the hotel?” queried Hopper.

“Only a message at the front desk asking me to have dinner with him this evening.”

“And you still think he was just a passing good Samaritan,” Yerli persisted.

Eva ignored him and looked at Hopper. “Pitt told me he was in Egypt for an archaeological survey of the Nile River for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I have little reason to doubt him.”