The Pharaoh's Secret by Clive Cussler Page A

authorized to be here,” one of the doctors said. His English was accented, but not in Italian; he sounded French to Kurt.
    â€œGet him out of here,” another one said. To Kurt’s surprise, this doctor sounded as if he came from Kansas or Iowa.
    Despite the warning, Kurt stepped forward, moving toward the NUMA personnel who appeared to be being experimented on. He wanted to see what they were doing to his people and put a stop to it. The MPs cut him off. Batons in hand. Tasers on their hips.
    â€œThrow him in the brig,” another doctor grunted. “And, for goodness’ sake, secure the rest of the ship. How in blazes are we supposed to work like this?”
    Before Kurt could be dragged away, a female voice intervened. “Do you really think it’s necessary to clap our hero in irons and bury him in the depths of the hold?”
    The words were English but Italian-accented and spoken with just the right mix of authority and sarcasm to ensure they would be obeyed. They came from Dr. Ambrosini, who was now standing on a catwalk above them.
    With the grace of a dancer, she came down a ladder and across the cargo bay to where Kurt and the MPs stood face-to-face.
    â€œBut Dr. Ambrosini . . .” one of the foreign medics protested.
    â€œBut nothing, Dr. Ravishaw. He saved my life, the lives of eighteen others, and he’s given us the best clue to the origin of this problem since the beginning of our investigation.”
    â€œThis is highly irregular,” Dr. Ravishaw said.
    â€œYes,” she replied, “as a matter of fact it is.”
    Kurt took some pleasure in the exchange and noted wryly that Dr. Ambrosini was the smallest person in the room but undeniably in charge. She seemed genuinely pleased to see Kurt, yet a few smiles and kind treatment weren’t enough to defuse his anger. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
    â€œCan we talk in private?”
    â€œI’d love to,” he said. “Lead on.”
    Dr. Ambrosini made her way to a small office next to the cargo hold. Kurt followed and shut the door after he stepped through it. By the look of it, the office was normally meant for a quartermaster, but it had clearly been co-opted by the medical personnel.
    â€œFirst off,” she began, “I want to thank you for saving me.”
    â€œLooks like you just returned the favor.”
    She laughed it off, brushed a strand of hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I highly doubt I’ve saved you from anything,” she said. “More likely, I saved those poor MPs from a painful scuffle that would have bruised their egos, at the very least.”
    â€œI think you overestimate me,” Kurt said.
    â€œI doubt that,” she replied, folding her arms in front of her chest and leaning against the edge of the desk.
    It was a nice compliment. Probably half true, but Kurt wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries. “Can we get to the part where you tell me why those quacks out there are doing experiments on my dead friends?”
    â€œThose
quacks
are my friends,” she said defensively.
    â€œAt least they’re alive.”
    She took a deep breath, as if deciding how much to say, and then exhaled. “Yes,” she said. “Well, I understand why you’re upset. Your friends, like everyone on the island, have suffered quite a bit. But we need to find out—”
    â€œWhat kind of toxin killed them?” Kurt said, interrupting. “I think that’s a great idea. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s done through blood tests and tissue samples. And while you’re at it, maybe someone should be testing the smoke coming from that freighter. But unless you can tell me something I’m missing, there’s no need for the Dr. Frankenstein treatment I just saw out there.”
    â€œDr. Frankenstein treatment,” she repeated. “That’s a surprisingly apt