Sahara by Clive Cussler Page B

sitting on the bottom of the river?” Eva asked.
    Pitt shook his head. “The silt of forty-five centuries has covered and buried all remains.”
    “How deep do you think it lies?”
    “Can’t say with any accuracy. Egyptian historical and geological records indicate that the main channel on the section of river we’re searching has moved about 100 meters east since 2400 B.C. If she’s on dry land near a bank, she could be anywhere from 3 to 10 meters beneath sand and mud.”
    “I’m glad I listened to you, this yogurt is good.”
    The waiter appeared deftly carrying a large silver tray with oval serving dishes. A spicy ground lamb cooked on skewers and crayfish grilled over charcoal were served along with a stewed kind of spinach green and a richly seasoned pilaf of beef, rice, raisins, and nuts. After consulting with the waiter who was so attentive he was downright patronizing, Pitt ordered a few pungent sauces for their entrees.
    “So what sort of strange maladies are you going to investigate in the desert?” Pitt asked, as the steaming delights were dished onto their plates.
    “Reports from Mali and Nigeria are too sketchy to make snap judgments. There have been rumors of the usual symptoms of toxic poisoning. Birth defects, convulsions or fits, coma and death. And also reports of psychiatric disorders and bizarre behavior. This lamb is really tasty.”
    “Try one of the sauces. The fermented berry complements the lamb.”
    “What’s the green one?”
    “I’m not sure. It has a sweet and hot taste. Dip the crayfish in it.”
    “Delicious,” Eva said. “Everything tastes wonderful. Except for the spinach-like greens. The flavor is awfully strong.”
    “They call it moulukeyeh. You have to acquire a taste for it. But back to toxin poisoning. . . . What sort of bizarre behavior?”
    “People tearing their hair out, beating their heads against walls, sticking their hands in fire. Running around naked like animals on their hands and knees and eating their dead as if they suddenly turned into cannibals. This rice dish is good. What do they call it?”
    “Khalta.”
    “I wish I could get the recipe from the chef.”
    “I think it can be arranged,” Pitt said. “Did I hear you correctly? Those who are contaminated eat flesh?”
    “Their reactions depend a great deal upon their culture,” said Eva, digging into the khalta. “People in the third world countries, for example, are more used to slaughtered animals than people in Europe and the United States. Oh sure, we pass a road kill now and then, but they see skinned animals hanging in the markets or watch their fathers butcher the tribal goats or sheep. Children are taught early to catch and kill rabbits, squirrels, or birds, then skin and gut them for the grill. The primitive cruelty and the sight of blood and intestines are everyday events to those who live in poverty. They have to kill to survive. Then when tiny trace amounts of deadly toxins are digested and absorbed into their bloodstream over a long period of time, their systems deteriorate—the brain, the heart and liver, the intestines, even the genetic code. Their senses are dulled and they experience schizophrenia. Disintegration of moral codes and standards takes place. They no longer function as normal humans. To them, killing and eating a relative suddenly seems as ordinary as twisting a chicken’s neck and preparing it for the evening dinner. I love that sauce with the chutney taste.”
    “It’s very good.”
    “Especially with the khalta. We civilized people, on the other hand, buy nicely butchered, sliced meat in supermarkets. We don’t witness cattle being brained with an electronic hammer, or sheep and pigs having their throats cut. We miss the fun part. So we’re more conditioned to simply expressing fear, anxiety, and misery. A few might shoot up the landscape and kill the neighbors in a fit of madness, but we would never eat anyone.”
    “What type of exotic toxin can cause